


put your love down soft and sweet

by nymeriahale



Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 15:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13790790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymeriahale/pseuds/nymeriahale
Summary: “Hiya,” Owen smiles crookedly once George has wrenched the door open. He’s still in his suit from the team dinner. Owen had stayed for a drink with a few of the guys, including Anthony, when all George had wanted was to sleep. George had written off even talking to Owen until the next day, and now he’s here. He blinks once just to confirm what he’s seeing, glances behind Owen to check Anthony’s not in the room.“Hi?” is all George can manage.“Anthony’s sneaking out to his girlfriend’s hotel,” Owen informs him. “I thought I’d come over and keep you company in his place - if that’s alright with you?”///Post 2018 Calcutta Cup established relationship comfort fic





	put your love down soft and sweet

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a quick half hour comfort exercise. I don't really know what happened?
> 
> Title from Work Song by Hozier.
> 
> Disclaimer: this work is fiction, no aspersions are cast on real life people etc etc

“Fuck,” George mutters to himself in the hotel shower, kicking a foot against the wall. It’s been hours since the match, the team dinner come and gone, and his mind is still in the post-match rut. He knows he needs to unwind, knows all this pent up frustration helps exactly nothing right now, but it’s a lot easier to know that than it is to actually bully his emotions into cooperating.

He groans quietly as he hears a knock on the bathroom door, “Yeah?” he calls, letting Anthony, his roommate for the weekend, know he’s heard. George fully understands the team’s decision to have the guys share rooms and promote that spirit of unity, but that doesn’t mean he always likes it.

“It’s me,” comes a voice that’s decidedly more Northern than George was expecting.

“Owen?” George asks incredulously, hopping out of the shower to open the door, caring nothing about the water he’s dripping all over the floor.

“Hiya,” Owen smiles crookedly once George has wrenched the door open. He’s still in his suit from the team dinner. Owen had stayed for a drink with a few of the guys, including Anthony, when all George had wanted was to sleep. George had written off even talking to Owen until the next day, and now he’s here. He blinks once just to confirm what he’s seeing, glances behind Owen to check Anthony’s not in the room.

“Hi?” is all George can manage.

“Anthony’s sneaking out to his girlfriend’s hotel,” Owen informs him. “I thought I’d come over and keep you company in his place - if that’s alright with you?”

George takes a half step forwards, raising his arms in preparation to hug Owen - then abruptly remembers that he’s still naked, and dripping wet. He pauses mid-motion, but Owen doesn’t let him stay paused long. He steps right up to George, places his neatly shined shoes carefully to avoid stepping on George’s bare feet, and pulls him into a tight hug. 

“Me too, Georgie,” Owen murmurs into George’s wet hair. “Me too.”

George lets out a long sigh, tucking his head more firmly onto Owen’s shoulder and bringing his arms up to wrap firm around Owen’s waist. They sway slightly there for a long moment. Owen brings a hand up to the base of George’s neck and squeezes firmly before starting up a little massage with his thumb. George shifts to press a kiss to Owen’s still fully clothed shoulder.

“I’m getting you wet,” George eventually points out, as if Owen hadn’t known. He leans back, still in Owen’s embrace, and traces with his eyes the drops of water on Owen’s face, the damp patch on his formerly crisp white shirt.

Owen shrugs, a motion George feels down to his waist with the movement of Owen’s shirt and jacket. As tempting as it is to just stand there for about an hour, George is slowly starting to become aware of the chill of the open room on his damp skin despite the warmth of Owen’s hands on the base of his neck, spread across the small of his back. 

George steps back fully, reaching down to take hold of Owen’s hand as it comes off his back. “Share?” he offers, tilting his head towards the still running shower.

“Please,” Owen says, voice a little wrecked.

George steps backwards to lead Owen into the bathroom, spontaneously going up on his tiptoes to kiss Owen on the cheek as he pauses to shut the door behind him. It’s not a gesture they exchange often, and George almost feels a little bashful as Owen’s eyes find his, wide with surprise. The small smile and squeeze on his hand reassure him in seconds as Owen ducks his head, looking more bashful than George had felt.

It’s the first real expression that George has seen cross Owen’s face since the match. His smiles and even grimaces had been clearly pasted on, distant behind the eyes. It feels overwhelmingly isolating, this kind of loss, this kind of frustration, this - to be honest - this kind of brooding. But the whole squad are feeling the same, and that’s something they’ll tackle over the next few days. 

Right now, Owen is feeling the same, and that’s something George will tackle - but not alone. Owen has come to him in this, whether for himself or for George - because there’s no doubt in George’s mind that Owen knew he’d be dwelling too. Regardless of why he’s here, they’re together in this. This is something they’ll tackle together, in each other, with and for each other.

George reaches for the Owen’s lapels, pulls them out and down to strip the jacket from his shoulders, stepping in close enough that he feels the warmth radiating off Owen’s skin as he gently tugs the jacket over his wrists. Owen lets out a shuddering breath as George just drops the jacket to the ground, brings his now mostly dry hands to Owen’s shoulder blades and drags them down his back to his waistband. He takes two handfuls of shirt, ducks his head to plant a kiss to the centre of Owen’s chest, and tugs to untuck the fabric.

“George,” Owen says, soft. George looks up but Owen doesn’t seem to have anything to say, hands dangling at his sides as he just stares.

“Owen,” George acknowledges, carrying on.

The room is quiet but for the spray of water from the still running shower, the soft pattern of their breathing.

George reaches softly for the buttons at Owen’s neck, undoing them as gently as he can, moving more freely as he travels down. After five buttons Owen reaches for his own waistband, unbuttons his trousers.

“No,” George says quietly. 

Owen pauses, midmotion.

“Let me,” George implores.

Owen sighs, long, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. His hands fall back to his sides, and George begins again.

He’s got Owen’s shirt halfway down his arms by the time he remembers about his cufflinks, and rolls his eyes at himself as he stops short. He makes a sound of consternation, startles slightly at Owen’s soft chuckle.

“Oi,” George scolds gently, bringing one of Owen’s hands up so he can see the fastening, making short work of it before depositing the cufflink on the sink beside them. He makes equally quick work of the second cufflink, stops short when Owen resists him lowering his hand back to his side. George looks up to see boundless affection in Owen’s eyes, catches his breath as Owen reaches forwards to cup his jawline, sweeping a thumb over his cheek. 

George’s eyes flutter shut and yet he’s not surprised at all when Owen’s lips brush once against his, gentle and brief, then return. George lets out a soft sound as Owen’s other hand comes to settle on his hip, sinking into the kiss as he slides his hand up to Owen’s shoulder. They part, breathing close for a moment, the air tense. 

Owen lets his hands drop back to his sides.

George takes a breath before carefully depositing the second cufflink on the sink, reaching to tug Owen’s shirt off his wrist. Rather than drop it directly behind Owen, on top of his suit jacket, George brings the shirt around to the front of Owen’s body, drops it there. Padding.

George makes eye contact and sees the realisation at the same moment he hears it, as Owen sucks in a breath. He sinks to his knees as Owen exhales, a little shaky. It gratifies George to hear, and he smiles, dropping his gaze to his work as he reaches to untie Owen’s shoe. Truth be told he’s too close to Owen for the movement to be that easy, but he doesn’t want to move away. He’s not currently planning on fulfilling the suggestion of their positions, doesn’t think either of them are quite in the mindframe for it, but he doesn’t want to sacrifice an inch of closeness.

“Lift,” George requests when he’s untied the first shoe, glances up quickly as Owen lays a hand on his shoulder for balance before complying. George makes quick work of Owen’s socks while he’s down there, throws the shoes gently to some kind of safe distance from the water of the shower.

Owen is slow to stand straight when George is done, slow to move his hand from George’s shoulder. He trails his hand, soft, up George’s neck and along his jawline, before straightening up. George follows the motion with his head, makes and maintains eye contact as he gently unzips Owen’s fly and tugs to send the fabric of his trousers cascading down his legs. He reaches for Owen’s underwear, pulls more gently, dragging them all the way down to his calves.

Owen’s a little hard, but he makes a soft negative sound in the back of his throat when George leans forwards. No, they’re not quite in the right mood, though it teetered on the edge for a moment there. George plants a kiss to the crease of Owen’s hip and leans back on his heels.

Owen stares down at George wordlessly for long moments. George looks back, not sure what he can give such a searching expression. Whatever Owen sees seems to be enough, and he reaches his hands forwards. George takes Owen’s hands, his invitation, and pulls himself to standing, pulls himself close in to Owen’s chest.

They breathe for a second, two, before Owen releases George’s hands to bring his own curving around the bottom of George’s back, barely above his arse, and tugs him gently but inexorably those few millimeters closer. George is a little off balance, nowhere to put his feet in the mess of clothes, but leans readily on Owen’s solid chest. He wraps an arm around Owen’s waist, settles his other hand reaching up to Owen’s shoulder blade.

George feels as if the air might be squeezed out of him as Owen pulls him closer and close, tugging him up onto his toes, even more off balance. He mirrors the strength of Owen’s grip, holding him just as tight, feels more tension than the grip drain out of Owen as he gently releases George back to his own balance.

“Shower?” Owen checks, and George just nods, turning to step in first.

He’s barely got himself wet again before Owen is crowding him, moving into the spray himself. Most days George would probably step back, let Owen have the water to himself for a period before they alternate. But this isn’t most days. He stands in place as Owen presses them together, bodies overlapping, as he reaches behind George for George’s shampoo.

George stays in place as Owen squirts the shampoo out onto his hand behind George’s back, arms encircling him, just allows his head to fall back slightly into Owen’s hands as they come up to massages the shampoo into his hair. He sways lightly with the gentle tug and firm rub of Owen’s hands on his scalp, allowing his eyes to fall shut. Barely hears himself uttering a quiet moan as Owen starts rubbing tight circles with his fingertips.

George leans back into Owen’s hands when Owen leans his own body forwards, trusting his weight to the motion as Owen angles his head under the spray and carefully works the shampoo, the gel, the poise of the day, out of his hair. George sighs heavily when Owen pushes lightly forward, encouraging George to return his weight to his own two feet, before removing his hands from George’s hair.

Owen chuckles lightly, “I know,” he murmurs into George’s ear. “I’ve got you.”

The movement and click of bottles behind George lead him to guess Owen’s next actions, but he’s surprised when Owen steps back. As expected, however, his hands are slick with George’s shower gel when he brings them to George’s chest to start washing him. His hands are firm over George’s pecs, his abs, and firm on his arm when George tries to reach for his shampoo to return the favour.

“Your turn,” Owen says, and George feels his resistance melt away instantly when he sees the intent in Owen’s eyes. Sure, he can let himself be spoiled. If Owen insists.

George nods, and Owen smiles as sunnily as he ever does before returning his attention to his task.

Owen works his hands slowly over George’s arms, softening his touch at any indication that he’s straying towards an ache. He’s thorough, every inch of George left feeling as well worked as after a sports massage - though infinitely more pleasurable. More of a tingle than a burning ache. He works his thumbs over the tendons of George’s hands, intertwines their fingers to clean him even there, runs a soft hand down George’s arm to rinse off the few remaining bubbles.

If George didn’t know better, he’d think Owen was cleaning some prized object - his first cap, perhaps, or a Six Nations trophy. The thought is only compounded as Owen takes his own turn to fall to his knees. 

The vulnerability of it hits George in a way it didn’t when it was himself down there. Owen doesn’t look up as George did, eyes down as he focusses on his task. He has to soften his touch more often than not on George’s thighs, as he moves his arms around George to work over his arse, skirting over each and every developing bruise with the utmost care and attention. He must have caused his fair share of bruises today - both of them did - but you'd never know it to look at him now. His eyes down, shoulders drawn in, Owen looks small in a way that's rare, looks gentle with the intent clear in the lines of his body, not fierce.

Owen moves down to George's calves, gently washing away the bubbles trapped in the hairs, as the scent of George’s shower gel rises around them. It's the scent both of them wear now more often than not, Owen either being lazy and not particularly bothered about his own brand, or actually quite liking the domesticity of stealing George’s things. George kind of hopes it’s the latter, because he loves it. He loves it in a way he can't articulate, loves it almost as much as seeing Owen like this. It's the intimacy of it, he supposes, if he had to try and pin it down. George loves this now rare gift of seeing a new side to Owen, a subtly different angle, finding a new dynamic between them.

George’s breath catches on an inhale, and he startles himself into a cough.

“Alright?” Owen checks, finally looking up. A trace of concern flickers behind the amusement in his eyes, and George’s chest feels so full he half thinks he could overflow. How he could have felt so empty barely ten minutes ago is inconceivable to him now. George knows the feeling will likely return, for both of them, but can't imagine it feeling so overwhelming, so boundless, after being treasured like this. How can one match leave you so lost when there's this to come home to, how can the despair lie so heavy in your body when you've been reminded of just how well you're loved, regardless of what does or doesn't happen on a pitch?

“I just-,” George has to stop, having not thought out how on earth he was hoping to convey everything he’s just been thinking and feeling. “I just love you,” he settles for, smiling involuntarily in response to Owen lighting up at his words.

“I love you,” Owen replies simply, before returning to his task.

When George’s legs are done, Owen stands again - George letting him do so himself, not trusting himself to safely pull Owen up on the wet surface.

“Just your back,” Owen tells him, but stops George with a hand on his shoulder when he starts to turn. “Like this,” he requests, reaching around George to squirt out more shower gel, before bringing his hands up to George’s shoulder blades, enfolding him in an embrace.

George allows himself to lean forwards, falling further into the trance Owen has been inducing in him with each slow caress, trusting his weight to Owen once again. Owen washes his back what seems like incredibly slowly, the sound of his breathing steady and soft in George’s ear. George is lulled by the sound, by the steady travel of Owen’s hands, by the soft fall of the warm water. 

By the time Owen’s hands have paused at the bottom of George’s back George has found himself lulled almost to sleep. He starts slightly as Owen drops his hands to take a tighter grip on his arse.

“You already washed that,” George says dryly, amusement coming through clear in his voice.

“I know,” Owen says candidly, squeezing gently before releasing.

George chuckles, stepping reluctantly away from Owen - a little afraid if he doesn’t do it now they’ll never get to bed. Owen seems to be having the same thought as he turns the shower off, stepping out behind George and accepting the towel he’s passed with a smile.

“Bed?” Owen asks quietly once they’ve dried off, and George just nods, exhaustion returning to him in a rush as he opens the door of the bathroom, breaking the seal of their sanctuary.

George gets in his assigned bed on his usual side, half wondering if Owen might go for Anthony’s free bed rather than try to share. He should have known better, he thinks to himself, hiding his smile when Owen does indeed climb into his side of George’s barely bigger than single bed.

“Budge up,” Owen mutters, laughter in his voice making it quite clear he knows George has nowhere to go.

“Whose bed is it?” George asks mildly. To reinforce his point he does move, turning from his back onto his side, then over again, so that only half of his body is on the mattress with the remainder leaning on Owen. It backfires a little as Owen simply shifts into George as he’s moving, therefore managing to take exactly the space he’d wanted. Even beyond that, he seems quite comfortable with George half lying on top of him. But George can’t exactly bring himself to be mad about it when Owen brings a hand across his body to rest on the base of George’s neck, shifts the other to brush fingertips against George’s hip. Instead, he melts into it on an exhale, settles his head on Owen’s shoulder as he realises he won’t be pushed off - either jokingly or seriously.

“Ours,” Owen purrs into his hair. It takes a while for George to remember the question, and he really wishes it hadn’t made him shiver quite so effectively regardless - or at least that Owen hadn’t been able to feel it quite so clearly.

Still, the slightly rumble of laughter through Owen’s chest is incredibly soothing, and George finds himself slipping back to that soft edge of sleep even sooner than he might have hoped.

“Sleep,” Owen says softly, and George obeys.

**Author's Note:**

> I mostly yell about rugby in the comfort of my own home but you can find me yelling about other things on [twitter](http://twitter.com/nymeriahale) or [tumblr](http://nymeriahale.tumblr.com), where I am always happy to yell about rugby if asked!


End file.
